


Something Eternal

by Octinary



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Brutality, Character Death, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Ghosts, Horror, Mind Break, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:14:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27324070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octinary/pseuds/Octinary
Summary: Kaer Morhen has always been haunted.  Before Salamandra plundered the paltry survivors of the earlier pogrom for forgotten reagents, before the pogrom, when the mob fanatically massacred the Wolf witchers out of blind hate, even before the witchers themselves strapped their children down to administer the mutagens that killed 7 out of every 10 so tortured, the bones of the long dead sea and the whisper of long stilled waves painted every corridor of the keep with their memories.  It’s always been a place for dead things.It’s where, at the end of his long full life, Jaskier of Oxenfurt goes to die.  It’s where the monster he brought with him is going to kill everyone he loves.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 48
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge: Halloween Special





	Something Eternal

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is your author reminding you that this is a horror story written for a Halloween prompt and that I am not joking around with the tags. If this sounds like the kind of thing you're looking for, I hope you enjoy! If not, feel free to leave, no hard feelings; thanks for stopping by and hopefully I can catch you next time!

Jaskier always used to say that, no matter how old you felt or how many years you expected that you would have to endure, there was nothing really eternal: that there was a reason poets reminisce on the melancholy of temporary joy, a reason parents are both proud and sad to see a child leave home, a reason handfasting ceremonies only promise ‘until death do us part.’ Even his much loved stories and songs are mutable - melodies changing with the times, paragraphs abandoned and restructured to suit each new generation of audience. Living things have to grow and change and fall apart and be reborn anew, or they cease to become living things. Lately though, Geralt can’t help but think there’s a flaw in his logic. His argument doesn’t prove that there is nothing eternal. It just means that nothing that is eternal is alive.

*

The trip up the mountain to the old keep ends up being no more or less difficult than any previous time they’ve made the journey, which feels wrong. It feels like it should have been different, more poignant and laborious somehow, but while Jaskier’s advanced age slows their pace, the fact that it is early summer eases the trail and the two competing circumstances seem to cancel each other out perfectly. Vesemir receives them as warmly as ever, although without the usual warm mug of cider given the already sweltering heat, and without the list of chores that desperately need to be done before the snows set in. Geralt has only one task here this season and he doesn’t need Vesemir to remind him of it. He’s here to help Jaskier die.

Jaskier, as always, is delighted to see Kaer Morhen and Vesemir. It has been decades since the last time he wintered here with the Wolves when he was in his early sixties, and while they have dutifully maintained a truly prolific correspondence, Jaskier hasn’t actually had the chance to gossip with Vesemir in person since then. As always, the conversation is easy. Even at the end of his breath, the bard still knows how to fill a silence. Seeing them both sitting in front of the hearth together later, sipping wine and musing on the good old days, Geralt is struck by how old Vesemir looks. How old Vesemir is, really. His mentor has been hovering on the edge of ancient for almost as long as Geralt has been alive, but the march of days is ultimately inexorable, even for him.

Eskel, too, Geralt thinks with a sinking feeling in his gut, is starting to show his years. There had been grey at his temples this past winter, and deeper wrinkles beside his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. Geralt, on the other hand, aside from his preternaturally white hair, still looks and feels much the same as he always has - a fact Eskel was happy to gleefully tease him about. If an outsider had been asked to guess based on appearance alone, they would certainly place him as Lambert’s cohort-mate, not Eskel’s. He wonders idly how many years he has until the hypothetical outsider would place him as younger than Lambert. Undoubtedly one more fun side effect of the extra mutations. He’s always healed faster than his brothers; aging slower should hardly come as a surprise.

After the bard has fallen asleep in his chair and is snoring softly, (Jaskier is never conscious for more than a few hours at a time these days), Vesemir disturbs Geralt’s melancholy thoughts with a quiet grunt and, “You doing okay, Wolf?”

Geralt snorts in response. “Would you believe me if I said I was?”

Vesemir just shakes his head and frowns. After another long pause, he gestures to Jaskier. “Is he okay?”

“He’s dying, Vesemir.”

“I know that, but…” the older witcher’s frown deepens as he tries to find the right words, “otherwise?”

“Other than dying?” Geralt knows he’s not being helpful, but he doesn’t feel like being gracious right now.

“For fuck’s sake boy, there’s been a pall descended on everything since you both got here. Something dark.”

The medallion on Geralt’s chest is not vibrating, but his eyes twitch to Vesemir’s for confirmation.

Catching his gaze, Vesemir fingers his own still medallion and shakes his head again. “No. Nothing so concrete as that. Just a- a bad feeling is all.” He narrows his eyes at his onetime pupil, the way he always has when he is trying to suss out if he’s being lied to. “That isn’t why you brought him here? To avoid some curse or blood spell on his passing?”

Burned one too many times in his long life by humans, Geralt can’t fault Vesemir for assuming they had an ulterior motive in coming. “No. Nothing like that.” Geralt shakes his head. “He just-” he swallows the lump building in his throat, “he just wanted to be here. With us.”

Since Jaskier had stopped travelling and retired to the academy, Geralt had made a point of making Oxenfurt his first stop on the Path every year. In the beginning, the visits were always a pleasant start to another summer: a nice in-between transition from the solitary safety of the winter keep to the crowded uncertainty of the cities and villages where he would have to ply his craft for the season. They’d go out for a drink together in the evenings and Geralt would bring Jaskier up to date on the lives of the denizens of Kaer Morhen and Jaskier would complain about his fellow professors and the classes he was teaching. But then Jaskier had stopped teaching classes. And then they had stopped going out for a drink when the old bard began preferring the comfort of his own sitting room to the crowds he was starting to find confusing. And now, finally, this spring, Jaskier had asked Geralt for a favour. He was uncertain whether he would ever see Midwinter again and just wanted a quiet place to read and finish his writing before he passed. Everything had been settled in Oxenfurt: the house had been sold and most of his things either pawned off on friends and family or donated to the school. He’d even set aside a truly generous sum to compensate Geralt for the lack of his normal summer income and bribe Vesemir for his hospitality. As if Geralt gave a damn for the money. And, he had pleaded, he knew it was asking a lot, but he’d had quite a bit of time to think about it and there was nowhere else he’d rather spend his final days than the old witcher fortress, maybe even hanging on long enough to see Eskel and Lambert again. Perhaps even Ciri and Yennefer or Triss, since they had a habit of stopping by when they knew the witchers would be home. It was his last request, he angled, if it wasn’t too much trouble. As if Geralt could have denied him anything. They left Oxenfurt together for Kaer Morhen two weeks later, after Jaskier had finished saying goodbye to his large social circle at, in typical Jaskier style, the wake he cheerfully threw for himself.

Vesemir’s frown has mutated into a fond half-smirk sometime during Geralt’s explanation. “He was a remarkable man.”

“Is,” Geralt corrects.

“Of course. Is.”

*

_Geralt dreams of the large dining table in the great hall of Kaer Morhen. There was a time when there were multiple tables and several dozen witchers would sit to dine, but there has only been one for a very long time now. The space is dark, there is no food or drink on the table, there are cobwebs and dust gathered in the corners of the room and he is alone. And, he dreads, he will be alone for a very long time now._

*

Pushing himself and making good time on the return leg of his supply run, Vesemir sights the familiar parapets of Kaer Morhen shortly after midday - a good day and half sooner than he had told Jaskier and Geralt to expect him. It’s been a while since he’s felt the pressures of time so acutely, enough to rush a familiar, but still dangerous trek, and, as he untacks the borrowed Roach, he writes off the niggling feeling gnawing in his gut as nothing more than concern and care for Geralt and his expiring bard. As soon as he sets foot in the keep proper though, Vesemir can sense that something horrible has happened. His medallion is as cold and unmoving as ice against his breast, but he can feel it in the core of every bone in his body: there is evil in his home. He swings the bag of supplies off his shoulders, mostly paper and ink for Jaskier who had managed to go through everything he brought with him in a matter of a few short months, and calls out, “Geralt? Jaskier?”

There is no reply, so he tries again louder. “Geralt! Wolf, where are you?” He hesitates for a moment, waffling between steel and silver before finally settling on the latter. It has been decades since he was on a real hunt, but the training that was quite literally beaten into him as a child hasn’t faded, even if some of his reflexes have. Quietly and carefully he makes his way through the abandoned hall to the makeshift room they had constructed out of bookshelves and curtains on the first floor so the aged bard wouldn’t have to deal with stairs. With the tip of his sword, he pulls back the curtains and peaks into the room.

The bard isn’t breathing and hasn’t been for at least an hour. Given his rate of deterioration over the last few days, Vesemir had known when he left that returning to find that Jaskier had passed was not outside of the question. The deep bruises on his neck and crushed ribs strongly indicate that it wasn’t a natural passing however. Despite everything, all the death and devastation of 400 odd years of witchering, the maimed body on the bed still causes the bile to rise in the back of his throat and his vision to swim for a moment. As he grits his teeth and tries to settle his stomach he admonishes himself for getting weak in his old age, for thinking his days of dealing with violent death were over. Everyone knows that witchers don’t retire.

He moves into the room and goes to investigate the body - Jaskier’s body. The first thing he can’t help but notice is that Jaskier did not go gently; even in his nineties and with one foot in the grave, he’d fought tooth and claw. There are defensive injuries on his arms and hands. Whatever it is that has done this to him had simply overpowered him. The wounds are all blunt force trauma, bruises and broken bones, but the crushed rib cage is likely what finally halted his heart though. Vesemir concludes that whatever it is, it is strong and does not appear to have attacked with teeth, talons or claws. Could a troll have made it into the keep? He doesn’t smell ogroid in the room however, just Jaskier and Geralt and death. He closes Jaskier’s eyes and tries to ease the look of terror from stiff, dead muscles. This man, this friend, had come here to meet his end in peace and instead he had met it brutally. Whatever did this has to die.

Vesemir doesn’t have any potions or blade oils, he hasn’t brewed any since he stopped walking the Path regularly all those years ago, but if this monster has killed Jaskier and potentially killed or at least incapacitated Geralt, then he will need any advantage he can get. Setting his jaw in determination and keeping his senses peeled, Vesemir makes for the stairs and Geralt’s room. The younger witcher had left this spring with a full complement of alchemical creations, ready for a summer’s work, but had returned with his friend before actually accepting a single contract. They sat unused with the rest of his abandoned gear. While Geralt had been spending most of his time with Jaskier, even going as far as sleeping in the chair in his friend’s room, his equipment was still in his own room several stories up. His scent was stronger here too, which gave Vesemir more of a picture of what had likely happened: Geralt and Jasker had been attacked. Unarmed and unarmoured, Geralt had fled to his room to retrieve his weapons. Not a religious man, Vesemir nonetheless prays to whatever god would listen to a witcher that he will find the man he considers a son in his room, physically unharmed and getting ready for a fight.

“Geralt?” he hisses as he approaches the open door. Still no verbal response, but the scent of the other witcher is getting stronger. From what he can see, Geralt’s swords and armour are not where they were left upon his return in a neglected pile beside the bed, which he takes to be a good sign. Maybe Geralt is already on the warpath. Hell, maybe he’s already gutted the thing. Hopefully, Vesemir creeps into the room. With the curtains drawn and no candles lit, the light is dim and it takes his eyes a second to adjust. Which is all his assailant needs.

The thing moves so quickly that Vesemir can’t even register the sound of its feet on the stone before he is hit in the back of the head with something heavy and hard, and falls, dazed and concussed, to the floor. It was behind the door, damn it all, just waiting for him to fumble in like a dewy-eyed trainee. He tries to struggle to his hands and feet even before his vision clears, instincts driving him to be vertical and fight back, but his left hand is mercilessly crushed against the floor, fingers grinding and snapping between the rock and an unforgiving surface, and his left elbow, never the same after that one disastrous griffin hunt near Carreras, gives out, spilling him onto his side. He rolls onto his back and prepares to cast Aard right-handed, but he’s struck again with the heavy weight, this time in the face, breaking his nose and cracking his skull. A second blow quickly follows the first, and then a third. He hears orbital bone break and feels wet jelly spilling down his cheek and realizes he likely just lost an eye. The concussion is making it hard to focus on anything though. In the brief reprieve of blows, he spits the blood from his mouth and finally catches a glimpse of the creature. “No… no… not that...” is the last thing he manages to say before everything goes dark. The last thing he thinks is ‘What has happened to Geralt?’

*

_Jaskier is humming as he sets the table, something bright and light and catchy. He smirks as he sets a plate down in front of Geralt and slides onto the bench beside him. In the warm light from the hearth, his eyes sparkle as brightly blue as they did when he was eighteen. A moment later, Vesemir enters, carrying a tray loaded with roast meat, potatoes and vegetables. Despite what must be the immense weight of the thing, (it looks like most of a whole boar), he doesn’t struggle with the burden, effortlessly easing it down onto the table. It is way more food than is needed for just the three of them, Geralt thinks. They must be expecting more guests._

*

Eskel is almost always the first home for the season. As Vesemir’s unofficial heir to the keep, he likes to be back early enough to help with all the preparations the older witcher used to do himself when they were younger: the preservation and pickling of vegetables, the butchering and salting of meat, any last minute runs for desperately needed supplies, and assessing the list of repairs the four of them will all have to undertake together if the old keep is to survive another brutal mountain winter. He’s even earlier than usual this year though. Vesemir had gotten into the habit of sending him a missive sometime between Midsummer and Saovine to give him a heads-up as to what he should bring when he returns. When Saovine came and went with no note, Eskel immediately turned for home. The whole climb up he has been trying not let his imagination run away with him. There are plenty of good reasons for Vesemir to have not written. For one thing, he’d heard that Jaskier and Geralt had spent the summer at the keep; maybe, with the extra hands around, Vesemir hadn’t needed to send for anything in particular. He tells himself the empty and quiet courtyard, while not a good sign, is not necessarily a bad one. Everyone could just be inside. And the smell of death could just mean that they’ve started culling the herd of goats early. “Vesemir? Geralt?”

He is determined not to panic, not without proof, which he finds the moment he steps into the stables. The horses are all recently dead - slaughtered no more than a few days ago or so. They were probably alive when he started at the bottom of the trail up to Kaer Morhen. Scorpion, even as well trained as he is, balks at the sight and Eskel quickly leads him back outside, Axii-ing him into forced placidity. He doesn’t consciously know what he is murmuring to the disturbed stallion, something comforting he hopes, when he catches the sight of the smoke coming from the chimney of the kitchen. The words die unspoken in his throat. Neither Geralt nor Vesemir would leave this carnage untended for that long. Something else is in there.

Scorpion momentarily forgotten, Eskel draws his silver sword and storms to the keep. Training and experience push themselves to the forefront of his mind, tempering his blind rage, and he’s cautious as he opens the door. Nothing. Just silence and dust, the soft sound of a fire deeper in and the smell of death. He approaches the kitchen quietly, but can’t sense anything of what might be beyond the door. His medallion is infuriatingly still on his chest, giving no guidance. He casts Quen preemptively as he pushes the kitchen door open with his left hand.

The blade is so sharp Eskel actually sees his hand falling from his wrist before he feels its loss and has enough time to think the weapon must be coated in dimeritium before the pain hits him. He yells and stumbles back, dropping his sword and cradling the bleeding stump to his stomach. Right-handed and retreating, he casts Igni, scorching and sealing the wound before he loses too much blood. He doesn’t turn to check, but he can hear whatever it is burst out of the kitchen after him as he runs for the rack of swords in the main hall to replace the one he abandoned. Once he has grabbed the first one he sees, steel, a part of mind notes coldly, he whirls to face a flurry of blows from his assailant. It looks human, but it’s hard to tell for sure. Whatever it is has cloaked itself, obscuring its face, and its clothing is in rags and tatters. It looks for all intents and purposes like a half-starved beggar, but it moves like a fucking force of nature. Within eight parrys, Eskel has drawn blood once, a quick nick to the right bicep, but knows he is outmatched in this contest. But swordsmanship has never been his true forte. He throws the sword away and Aard’s the monster across the hall with great satisfaction. Yrden keeps it held where it fell and he’s about to cast Igni when the thing looks up and meets his eyes.

“Wha- how?” The spell fizzles with his concentration.

The thrown dagger lodges in his extended right hand, severing the tendons and muscles that control his index and middle fingers and, truly, unarming the witcher. The pain feels distant and unimportant however. He’s dead. He’s known it from the moment they locked eyes. The only thing he can do is try to warn the others. He knows he’s close to crying with frustration and rage and hurt as he yells, “Fuck!” and runs for the tower the sorceresses use when they visit. He’s got a decent head-start: the Yrden, the last sign he’ll ever cast, will hold for another minute or so.

Eskel shoulders the heavy door at the top of the stairs open and makes for the megascope. He doesn’t have any way to charge the crystals, but he does have the dimeritium coated dagger still stuck in his right hand. Megascope crystals are delicate things and prone to explode in the presence of the magic-averse mineral. It won’t be an eloquent warning, but Triss is sure to notice if her megascope explodes. He hovers his impaled hand over the nearest crystal, but doesn’t make contact. He might as well wait for the monster. With any luck he can catch it in the blast too.

He smells it in the doorway before he sees it: Geralt and Vesemir and Jaskier and death. He has no free hand to brush away the tears welling in his eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

“For something eternal.”

“Fuck you.” He touches the metal to the crystal and blows the top off of the tower.

*

_Eskel enters quietly, obviously not wanting to be impolite and interrupt Jaskier’s story, but the gentle giant is noticed quickly by the dining group anyways. Vesemir beams and claps a hand on his shoulder, pulling him to a seat on the bench while Geralt fills a plate for him and Jaskier starts his tale again from the beginning for Eskel’s benefit, sloshing wine everywhere with his exaggerated gestures. The laugh lines crinkling at the edges of his eyes get a good workout as he smiles broadly at Geralt and quaffs his own drink. Eskel has brought another few bottles in with him, and while they make a good dent in them there is still a lot left. And there are still empty seats at the table._

*

Ciri portals them into the courtyard of the keep. Triss could have done it, but her triangulation of the exact location of Kaer Morhen is a bit fuzzy without her megascope and the witcheress has made this particular jump at least a hundred times. When Triss sensed the explosion, she had immediately tried to contact Vesemir using other means and had failed. After that she had tried Geralt, Eskel, Lambert and Ciri. Only Ciri and Lambert had responded. Ciri had teleported to Novigrad immediately, but Lambert was wandering the deep woods south of Sodden after a leshen and they had no way to get a solid read on his location - which meant no way for them to pick him up. He had insisted, loudly and with great profanity, that they wait for him before making any fucking move. Triss had contemplated complying with that demand, but Ciri does not have that kind of patience. She hadn’t even had the patience to wait outside Yennefer’s warded rooms for the dark-haired sorceress to finish whatever she was doing when she had stopped by on her way to Triss’ to try to elicit her mother’s aid. Lambert could be days, weeks away even. Her family is in trouble now. What if those hours would have made all the difference? Lambert, for all his prickly standoffishness, would understand.

The stallion in the courtyard, still fully tacked, is desperately happy to see them when they pop into existence. “Scorpion?” 

“Eskel’s mount?” Triss frowns, brow furrowing.

Ciri nods and lets the horse nuzzle her hand for a second before quickly gathering his reins and leading him to the stable. “Let’s get you out of-” She freezes at the massacre before her. The sorceress catches her stiffness and joins her at the door. “Oh gods…”

Setting her jaw, Ciri turns and leads the horse back into the courtyard as Triss enters the stable to investigate. She mechanically pulls off his tack and leaves it discarded on the broken cobblestones. Satisfied that Scorpion at least is a little better off, she turns back to Triss.

“They’ve been dead about a week I would guess.” The colour has drained from the older woman’s face as she stares at the decimated tower. “Let’s stick together. Start there.”

Ciri nods and together they enter the keep and make for the tower. They peek into the makeshift sick room as they pass and stop to investigate the corpse. Based on the set-up of the room, they assume it’s Jaskier, but he’s obviously been dead for months. Ciri had known he was near the end of his time, and she knows that she should feel sad, dismayed even, at his passing, but, right or wrong, that’s not the feeling that overwhelms her. Whatever is haunting these halls has been here for a while. The violation of it has Ciri seething and she adjusts her grip on her sword.

It’s early evening and the sun has set, so Triss casts a light before them as they climb. Ciri is worried it just makes the shadows darker, but without witcher senses, they need the assistance. It’s a necessary trade off she believes is worth it right up until they reach the broken top floor and something strong from the shadows grabs her by the forearm and flings her off into empty air. She’s portalled herself back into the courtyard and is running for the door again before the tendrils of her magic have even started to dissipate.

“Ciri!” Triss yells and feels a wave of relief when she sees the tell-tale flash of aqua light which means the girl has managed to save herself. The sorceress calls on her chaos to expand the light spell and try to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that threw Ciri, but she blanches when her magic illuminates the remains of a mutilated man.

“Eskel,” she sobs, stepping back away from the carnage and into a figure behind her. She is about to turn and mercilessly attack - nothing that has done this deserves a chance to defend itself - when she feels a hand on her waist and soft, warm breath on the back of her neck.

“Geralt?” She leans back into his solid bulk. “Thank the gods, it’s you. What the hell happened here? Eskel is-” she chokes on the word, “And Jaskier! And I can’t get a hold of Vesemir and-”

She feels his other hand trailing up her side, fingers light and teasing and tries to pull out of his grip. “Come on. Now is not the time! Geralt! Ah!” She screams as the hand at her waist disappears and is replaced with a violent harsh hug across her chest, pinning her upper arms to her sides. “What are you-” Her voice is abruptly stifled by the rag soaked in ether which is stuffed over her mouth and nose. She struggles to escape her captor, but the grip around her is like a vice and she had stupidly gasped in several lungfulls of the chemical before she’d realized what it was.

Ciri is coming, she thinks. I just have to hold on until Ciri returns. Her strength is ebbing rapidly though and she feels her knees give out. Her assailant lets her fall to her knees, trying desperately to pull clean air into her body while her vision swims and dances. She’s hauled to her feet and tries to get her eyes to focus on the thing holding her. “You?” With a harsh shove she’s falling again, much further this time. Dazed, she doesn’t have the power to cushion her landing on the cobblestones below.

“Triss!” Ciri makes it back to the top of the tower in time to see the sorceress fall, but not to do anything about it. “Damn you!” She rages at the shadowy figure, who dodges her first attack easily and disappears over the ledge itself. Ciri runs to the edge and looks down to see it making unnaturally good time down the side of the building to the courtyard. But she knows she can get there faster. With a steadying breath she calls her power to teleport her to the courtyard for the third time that night.

The strike is timed perfectly, the blade of the sword punching through her back and out her left breast almost the second she solidifies, as if it was intimately familiar with Ciri’s chosen destination. She thinks she should phase again, get away, find Lambert and Yen and regroup, but she’s rapidly discovering that it is hard to control the natural functions of her body while her lungs are filling with blood, let alone the unnatural ones.

It’s an incredibly discomfiting feeling, when she can tell her attacker has let go of the weapon and, without its support, she falls forward. With a soft cry she turns to land hard on her side, one hand futilely grabbing at the steel protruding from her front. Blood froths on her lips as she gasps and stares as one of the bloody boots in front of her lifts and steps down firmly on her neck. At the last, wet green eyes flash up uncomprehending to meet inhuman yellow. She mouths the word "No" and she is gone.

*

_As soon as she arrives, Ciri is the centre of attention, as well she should be. Vesemir’s prized granddaughter, Eskel and Jaskier’s niece, she’s always commanded everyone at Kaer Morhen’s hearts as easily as she commands Geralt’s. Triss is resplendent as always as she slides in beside him and offers him an apple, but there’s understanding and mirth in her eyes when he is drawn back to listening to Ciri. Apparently Ciri thinks Lambert is coming. Good. The more the merrier._

*

If he had any other choice in the world, Lambert would not be travelling with Yennefer of Vengerberg and he’s pretty sure the sorceress shares that sentiment. Unfortunately for the both of them, they don’t have any other options. Lambert had shown up on her doorstep, desperate and ragged, broke and begging for a portal to Kaer Morhen. He’d received a message from Triss and Ciri weeks ago that they suspected trouble and hadn’t heard from them since. He had to get there as fast as possible, no matter the cost.

Yennefer had initially dismissed his dramatics out of hand; if there had been trouble, Ciri would have called for her. Which is when the useless housekeeper finally thought to mention that the ashen haired girl had, in fact, briefly stopped by in a timeframe consistent with the witcher’s story, looking somewhat distressed. Her mistress had been busy and they couldn’t get her attention through the wards and while the housekeeper had offered, the girl hadn’t wanted to stay for dinner or leave a message - she’d just popped back out of existence quick as could be. Yennefer had been beyond livid. The wards were supposed to be there to protect people from her latest experiments with chaos, not prevent her from helping those she loved. She had immediately tried to contact Ciri, but gotten no response. Geralt was equally as unreachable, as were Vesemir and Eskel. She’d told Lambert she would go alone as she cast the portal spell that would bring her to Kaer Morhen. The man looked dead on his feet, but was absolutely resolute to come and Yennefer didn’t want to waste the time it would take to argue with him.

She arrives in the courtyard, like usual, and almost immediately trips over the frosted body. Winter comes earlier in the mountains than it does to the plains below and there is a soft dusting of snow blanketing the still space. Without realizing what it is she’s stumbled on, the first words out of mouth are about to be a curse before she recognizes familiar ashen hair. Yennefer sinks to her knees on the cold stones and brushes the flakes from the face of the girl more dear to her than life itself. “Ciri…” She’s weeks too late.

Lambert is stomping around, somehow still able to keep clinically assessing the situation. Yennefer has pulled Ciri half into her lap and is petting her hair when he crouches down beside her. “Horses are dead. Most in the stable, but Eskel’s stallion out here. The ones in the stable were butchered, but I think dehydration got Scorpion. Triss’ body is at the base of the tower.” She can see him wrinkle his nose in her peripheral vision. “There are more bodies in the keep.”

“So?” It’s crueler than she should be. She does care for Geralt, for Vesemir, Eskel and Triss too even. But their deaths all seem to pale in comparison to the loss she’s holding in her lap.

“So I’m going in.” He sets his pack down beside her, fishes out a few potions and bombs and stashes them about his person. “You stay here and weep if you want, woman.”

That ignites her rage. Lacking an appropriate target, like the monster that did this, it lands on Lambert. “Just like that? Just like it’s any other job?” He doesn’t respond, just keeps walking away from her, silver sword drawn and bomb in his left hand. “They’re dead because you couldn’t get here in time and you don’t even care. I always knew you were heartless.”

“What did you expect me to do, Yennefer!?!” He finally whirls and snaps at her. “Teleport to them? Send them a magical communication? I told them to wait for me. I fucking begged them. And they chose to fuck off and leave me straggling after them like a kicked dog. Now I’ll do what I always do when someone takes something from me. I’ll kill it.” Eyes emotionless, he turns back to the keep.

She stumbles numbly to her feet to follow him, killing something sounds like a good idea right now, but her knees are still weak so she is several steps back when she sees the shadowy figure in the doorway stop him. Even from this distance she can see the muscles in his back tense, but he doesn’t move to charge immediately. She can’t imagine what he must be seeing, or for all she knew, smelling, that would halt him like this. “What is going on?”

The figure doesn’t respond, it just raises its hand quickly and flames explode towards Lambert. He has Quen up before it hits though, shielding himself and, by the luck of their positioning, her; he had to drop the bomb in his hand to do it though. In the heat of the magical flames, the discarded bomb, dimeritium, of course, goes off bathing the courtyard in sickly green dust, evaporating Lambert’s shield and setting her ears ringing. She can’t hear the clash of swords as they meet. The shadowed figure is stronger, that much is evident, but Lambert is quick and flexible and neither are making much headway. She can see Lambert’s mouth moving: he’s yelling something, two syllables, repeated over and over again, but she can’t hear.

Presumably deciding that this venue is not to its liking, the man or monster or whatever pushes Lambert back with a strong parry, grabs a torch from its sconce and throws it at Yennefer before retreating back into the building and slamming the door. It’s a pathetic throw though, and misses Yennefer by a mile to land behind her near Lambert’s discarded pack. In the moment of reprieve, she runs her hands over her face, trying to get as much of the accursed magic deadening dust off of her as possible. She doesn’t hear Lambert yelling. She doesn’t notice him running at her. She is completely surprised when he, with a strength she hadn’t expected him to possess, bodily throws her across the yard. She’s even more surprised when the bag explodes.

Bombs, Yennefer thinks weakly, lying on her back and showered in debris, snow, blood and viscera, Lambert always carries a lot of bombs. Coughing, she rolls onto her hands and knees. She can see pieces of the witcher who saved her all over the courtyard, along with the sickly green of more dimeritium dust and a paler cloud of poison. She has to get out of here. A hand grabbing her by the hair stops her. She’s pulled up and face to face with the cause of all of this and, quite, suddenly, realizes what Lambert was yelling.

“Geralt.”

He looks awful. His hair is matted and dirty underneath the ragged cloak and his clothes are in no better shape, but his body is still obviously hale beneath the grim and blood, easily strong enough to hold her weakening form still.

“Geralt, what are you-” She starts to cough, poison making its way into her body.

Cold black eyes just stare and his lips turn up into a smirk as he holds her there in the deadly mist. She’s struggling badly now, but it doesn’t seem to be affecting him. Of course, an academic part of her thinks calmly, Golden Oriole. He’s immune.

The coughing has intensified into a choking sensation and, pitifully, like an animal in a trap, she starts to flail wildly, nails drawing blood on his arms and face. She can see the shallow scratches healing over almost immediately however and knows it is ultimately futile. “Why?” She manages to gasp before losing consciousness.

He holds her there longer, until he’s absolutely sure her heart has stopped, before he considers her question. She can’t hear him now, so it doesn’t matter if he answers, but he nevertheless mutters, “So you’ll stay,” he tells her still body. “So you’ll all stay.”

Betrayal, pain, death. It’s actually very easy to make a ghost, he thinks.

*

_Yennefer embraces Ciri warmly when she arrives and kisses her forehead. Geralt always loves to see them together: the easy way the aloof Yennefer melts in front of her chosen daughter. Lambert, predictably, is sullen as he takes his place at the table, but accepts the plate of food and goblet of wine when offered. Geralt shoots his younger brother a small smile, trying to make him feel welcome, but Lambert’s eyes do not brighten and for a flash the illusion is broken: the feast is gone and he is sitting in a crumbling keep with no provisions as winter comes on. If he focuses on the spirits around him, he can see the hollow pain in their eyes and the ethereal chains binding them all to the empty table. He can see the wounds where sword and spell ripped through their flesh and bone and hear their wails. He squeezes his eyes closed and ignores his senses though. The disruption always passes. And the momentary pangs of discomfort, of something almost akin to guilt, are ultimately a small price to pay for the certainty that they will be here. With him. Forever._

*

A hundred years from now, and for ages and ages afterwards, the bards still sing the songs about witchers. They’ve changed over the years of course, exactly as Jaskier had predicted they would, but they are recognizable still. Not quite dead yet. They sing of heroics and heartbreak and destiny and duty. They also sing that Kaer Morhen is haunted, but that someone still lives there alone with his ghosts - the very last of the Wolf Witchers, his advanced mutations keeping him alive long after the world no longer has need of him. No one knows if it’s true though since no one who has ever gone to investigate the old keep has ever returned. The stories say he can’t leave Kaer Morhen, that he’s held there by something. Something eternal.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on tumblr ([octinary.tumblr.com](https://octinary.tumblr.com)) if you'd like to talk. :) Or, y'know, ask me what the f*ck is wrong with me for thinking of this...


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